Black on Black Arts


The Demise of a Poet Poem by Black on Black Arts


Time slowly ticks tick, ticking away.
Sitting at the table staring at a blank piece of paper.
Pen in hand tapping tap, tapping on the table.
It echoes as it resonates thru the house.
His inspiration washed away like seashells on a beach.
Eyes red as the tears fall it wets the paper that was once considered his canvas.
Creativity gives way to frustration.
Liquor becomes his aspiration.
Nothing else matters as he drinks the pain away.
Laying down bottle in hand.
Giving up on his one true love.
Feeling a pain in his chest he holds his heart his eyes shutter and close.
The bottle falls.
His body goes limp.
An eerie sounds looms acroos the house.
The time slowly continues to tick, tick away
I flatline

Submitted: Monday, February 25, 2013

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Comments about this poem (The Demise of a Poet by Black on Black Arts )

  • Rookie - 60 Points Pakeeza Rizvi (10/10/2013 4:04:00 AM)

    very nice lines...Creativity gives way to frustration.
    Liquor becomes his aspiration.
    Nothing else matters as he drinks the pain away.
    Laying down bottle in hand.
    Giving up on his one true love.i like it everlasting feelings occurs very beautiful May Allah bless you stay blessed and keep penning... (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 120 Points Amanda Laurent (10/6/2013 5:05:00 PM)

    Good job capturing that frustrating feeling - having so many emotions, but being unable to find the words, to arrange them in a way worthy of representing those emotions. It's like death to a poet... (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 166 Points Kelly Zion (9/4/2013 3:08:00 PM)

    There are no words to explain this poem. Just empty silence. (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 52 Points Princess Lilypad (8/31/2013 5:30:00 PM)

    No flatline on creativity here. just flowing. but expressive of the utter frustration when you run into the wall. beaut. (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 5 Points Joshua Fegley (2/25/2013 3:50:00 PM)

    Interesting. I suppose this is what happens to the many aspiring poets of the ages. One will not become wealthy as a poet. Drinking never helped me. I get more insight when brutalizing myself with weights. To each their own. Good write. Cheers. (Report) Reply

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